A Kiss Like This

by Sara Ney

  Because of me. Why didn’t I just give the damn thing back when I had the chance? There’s no way I can casually do it now.

  I am so screwed.

  God, why am such an asshole?

  I reach between us and clasp Abby’s hand, giving it a squeeze, desperate to ease my guilty conscience, worried that when she finds out I lied through omission that she’s going to be pissed. Worry that she’s never going to trust me.

  Give up on me before giving me a chance.

  Shit. What am I saying?

  I look down at our entwined hands, then back up at Abby’s profile. Her lips are curved into a pleased smile. She looks so… happy that when her shining eyes meet mine, I stop walking, halting in my tracks.

  She’s jerked back and her backpack slides down her shoulder from the motion, falling to the ground with a thud.

  “Caleb, what…?” She looks up, startled.

  We’re in the middle of the sidewalk, in the middle of our neighborhood, and only a few houses down from her shithole rental, but I don’t care. I do the only thing I really know how to do, the thing I do best—use my body to communicate. When I’m on the ice, playing hockey, I use my legs and hands to do my job, deflecting pucks and protecting the net. I can go an entire ninety-minute game without talking or uttering a single curse. The voices in my head are loud enough.

  Now, I do the same.

  Without using words, I loosen my own bag and lower it down off my shoulders, setting it on the ground and raising my hands to cup Abby’s face between my palms. Her expressive eyes are huge. Clear. Blue. Questioning.

  Shit. What I’m doing? I can’t kiss her in the middle of the street.

  Ugh! Fuck!

  I release her and bend down, grab both our book bags, swing them easily onto my shoulders as if they weigh nothing, and keep walking. Abby doesn’t say anything as she falls into step beside me, giving me a confused sidelong glance but grabbing my hand again.

  I give it a squeeze and hold on tight.

  ***

  Cecelia: What do you mean he just stopped on the sidewalk and stared at you? That’s kind of weird…

  Abby: Well, it was kind of weird, but he looked like he wanted to say something. Like it was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t get the words out.

  Cecelia: Like he wanted to declare his undying love for you?

  Abby: I wish! What was it like with you and Matthew?

  Cecelia: Well. He said ‘I love you’ after only like, 2 months. But it’s like I always say, “When you know, you know.” You know? lol

  Abby: Yeah, I do. I just… He’s so hard to read. I wish he talked more.

  Cecelia: You do?!?

  Abby: (sigh) No. I don’t wish he talked more. He’s perfect the way he is. I just wish I knew what he was thinking.

  Cecelia: Um, you probably don’t. Knowing you, you’d be scandalized. He probably wants to rip your clothes off. Trust me, those hockey boys are walking, raging hormones.

  Abby: Well, that’s not likely to happen. A guy like that isn’t going to wait around for me, and you know I don’t sleep around.

  Cecelia: Oh, you’re talking about “No sex before monogamy…” Are you still watching that damn Millionaire Matchmaker?

  Abby: Yeah, so?! Besides, I don’t know if you’ve seen Caleb lately, but he’s like… incredible. Girls are all over him. Why would he want to be with me when he could have any girl on campus?

  Cecelia: Gee, I don’t know—because he LIKES YOU??????? Maybe he even loves you? Because he’s not a manwhore? Trust me. I asked around on your behalf. You’re welcome.

  Abby: I wish I were better at this. If I blush at him - or the thought of him - one more time, I’m likely to self-combust

  Cecelia: Well whatever you’re doing, just keep doing it. And Abby?

  Abby: Yeah?

  Cecelia: He’s the lucky one here. Remember that.

  CHAPTER 22

  Caleb

  I’m putting the last of the caulk on the trim by the kitchen sink when I hear the sound of the screen door off the pantry open, then bang shut shortly after. I turn to the soft sound of feet trudging up three stairs and a clearing of the throat.

  Holy. Shit.

  “Dad? Hey.” I set the tube of caulk down and grab a dishrag, wiping my hands clean before moving into my dad’s embrace. He pounds me on the back a few times and steps back to look at me.

  “Hey. kiddo. Working on a project?”

  “Um, yeah. The trim on the undermount was peeling.” I glance out the window, tapping my middle finger on the wood-grain kitchen countertop. “Is Mom with you?”

  “Yes. She’s grabbing a few things from the car. Blaze is giving her a hand with some groceries.”

  “What are you guys, um…” doing here? I want to ask but don’t, because I don’t want it to sound like I’m being rude or disrespectful. Don’t get me wrong; I love my parents, and they’ve done a ton of shit for me and my hockey career, but they live two hours away.

  They never just randomly show up without giving me a heads up first.

  “Just a Sunday drive.” My dad laughs, clamping his hand solidly down onto my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Mom misses you, bud. We thought we’d drive down and take you for an early dinner. Is that okay, or do you already have plans?”

  “Nope. No, that sounds great. No plans.”

  Just then, Blaze comes through the door, holding three paper grocery sacks and a blue IKEA bag, propping the door open for my mom with his foot, the only thing in her arms a six-pack of paper towels.

  She pats him on the face as she passes. “Good boy.”

  Blaze grins. “This is why I love your mom, Showtime. That, and she’s a MILF.”

  “No, you love her because she brings you food,” my dad says with a laugh as my mom starts taking food out of the grocery bags and setting them on the counter closest to the pantry. “I draw the line at letting your mom unpack everything. Wendy, let the boys do it.”

  My mom ignores him.

  My dad rests his hips against the counter and folds his arms at the same time my mom hands him a box of garbage can liners without giving him a second glance. “Here. Go put these under the sink.”

  Dad unfolds himself and puts the garbage bags under the sink.

  Well, I guess we know who wears the pants in that relationship.

  Blaze snickers. “What are the Lockharts up to this afternoon, besides checking in on their baby boy?” he asks, taking the paper towels from my mom and unwrapping each roll as I get handed a ten-pack of spaghetti noodles from Costco.

  “Maybe just an early dinner,” Mom says, grabbing the Clorox Bleach spray and wiping down the kitchen counter. “If we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to end up scrubbing this entire place clean.”

  “None of the guys would mind finding you down here cleaning, Mrs. L. You’re a total MILF.”

  “Hey, cool it with the MILF talk already,” my dad warns him with an exaggerated scowl as he grabs an apple out of a nearby bowl, peeling the little sticker off and taking a bite.

  My mom giggles into the washrag, her dark brown eyes gleaming with delight at being called a MILF like it’s a goddamn compliment. You know what a MILF is, right? A “Mother I’d Like to Fuck.” Yeah. And my mom likes it. How sick is that?

  Dad swallows his bite of apple. “Blaze, you boys are welcome to join us. We thought we’d just hit The Brewery downtown. Grab a few beers and keep it casual.”

  Blaze looks at me. “Are you bringing Abby?”

  My dad’s eyes widen. “Who’s Abby?”

  Shit. Seriously?

  “His new girlfriend,” the traitor says casually over his shoulder, stacking some cans of Chunky Soup into the cabinet above the microwave. I want to grab him by the scruff of his black polo shirt and shake the living shit out of him.

  Mom sets down the washrag and pivots on her heels to look at me. “Girlfriend? Caleb, how long… We’d love to meet her, of course.” My mom’s trying to play
it cool, but I can see the excitement in her dark, expressive eyes. She’s holding back a million and one questions and clamps her mouth shut to prevent anything more from spilling out. You know, so she doesn’t spook me.

  Fucking. Blaze.

  I dig deep and shoot him the nastiest glower I can conjure up, my eyes practically sealed shut from squinting at him. Running my fingers through the hair under my ball cap, I exhale slowly.

  “She’s not. Abby isn’t… Ugh, we’re just. Shit,” I mutter to myself, running my fingers through my hair under my ball cap. “I mean, it’s only been a few dates.”

  “And by a few, he means one. As in uno,” Blaze helpfully adds, holding up his index finger to indicate the ‘one,’ and I want to tell him to shut his fucking face. “We did, however, catch them dry hum—”

  I give him a quick jab him to the ribcage. With my fist. “Dude, I swear to god…”

  “Damn, bro, someone is sensitive.” He laughs as he rubs his side. My parents look on, both fascinated and confused. “But seriously. You should text Abby. Your parents would love to meet her.” He looks at my mom and winks. “Great girl, Mrs. L. She’s a peach.”

  I’m seriously going to kill this kid.

  My dad levels me with a stare after Mom shoots him a hopeful glance full of expectation. I’ve see this look on my mom before; she expects my dad to step in and “handle me” to get what she wants. Since I know he’ll do anything to make my mom happy, and what she wants is for me to call Abby, I’m not the least bit surprised when he demands, “Well. What are you waiting for? Go invite the girl to dinner.”

  Seething, I excuse myself, dragging my heavy legs upstairs to the privacy of my bedroom and all but slamming the door behind me. It might be a simple text, but this will be our first, and I need a minute to collect myself. She doesn’t even know I have her number.

  Fuck.

  I hit COMPOSE on my phone and find Abby in my contacts list.

  Taking a deep breath, I punch out a text, grateful that I can’t stutter or sound like a fucking idiot via text. Right?

  Me: Abby, it’s Caleb. How’s it going?

  A few minutes go by that have me pacing the hardwood floors the length of my bedroom, and I wonder briefly if they can hear my nervous footsteps down in the kitchen.

  Probably.

  Abby: It’s good! How about you?

  Exclamations are a good sign, yeah? I wipe my sweaty palms on the leg of my jeans before hitting REPLY.

  Me: Good.

  I pause, wanting to type, Um. Shit. This is harder than I thought it would be.

  Me: Good.

  Dammit. I just texted her ‘Good’ twice.

  Me: Listen. My pants are in town, and I was wondering… they were wondering if

  Accidentally hitting SEND before finishing the sentence, I groan after realizing it autocorrected parents to pants.

  I lied. Shit, you actually can sound like a douchebag moron via text. I just proved it.

  Me: My PARENTS are in town, and we were wondering if you wanted to join us for an early dinner. If you’re not busy.

  Me: I totally get it if you have plans. Or think it’s weird.

  Shit, I scold myself, stop texting her. Jesus, Caleb, get grip.

  After a few minutes go by without any kind of response, I resume my pacing, stopping to tap my fingers on the ledge of my windowsill like a fidgety crack whore.

  My phone pings and my heartbeat stills.

  Abby: What time?

  What time? Was that a yes? Holy crap. What. Time.

  Me: I can walk over and get you in a half hour? Is that enough time for you to get ready?

  Me: My parents just kind of showed up and my Dad is hungry. Sorry.

  Abby: No, that’s plenty of time. I went to church this morning, so all I need to do is change back out of these yoga pants. lol ;)

  Me: Great. I’ll see you in a half hour then.

  Abby: It’s a date.

  ~ Abby ~

  It’s a date? It’s a date?

  Ugh, why did I put that! That definitely deserves a face palm.

  Groaning, I cover my eyes when my phone pings a few seconds later and peek at the screen through my fingers.

  Caleb: It’s a date.

  Yes!

  Shrieking, I throw my phone down onto the bed like it’s just caught on fire and dance around the room, arms above my head, hair sweeping wildly around my shoulders. I feel like the girl version of Kevin Bacon in the original Footloose—you know the part where he’s dancing in the old grain mill? Yeah, that’s me right now, but in a good way, not in the pissed-off, this stupid town has outlawed music and dancing way, but in a holy crappers I’m meeting his parents way.

  I pop on Spotify and dance around to the beat of “Good Girls” by Five Seconds of Summer before stopping to look at myself in the mirror, taking inventory of my reflection, breathing heavily.

  Flushed cheeks, animated blue eyes. My long dark hair is still wavy from having been curled early this morning, but I’m wearing black yoga pants, and those simply won’t do.

  I glance at my phone: seventeen more minutes to get ready before Caleb comes to pick me up.

  Shoot.

  Opening my closet, I peer inside, grabbing out a pair of worn boot-cut jeans and tossing them on my bed. I then thumb through my shirts, biting down on my bottom lip with indecision, but finally pull out a thin gray cable-knit sweater.

  Gray heeled Frye boots complete the simple look, and just as I give my hair one last fluff and add some gloss to my lips, the rusty old doorbell croaks out a sickly ding-dong.

  Grateful that both my roommates are out of the house, I smooth my hands down the front of my jeans, grab my phone off the bed, my purse from the hook beside my closet, and move through the living room to swing open the front door.

  Caleb shuffles his feet on the front stoop, shoulders slouched, looking adorably embarrassed. “Hi.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans, but today, he’s missing the element of his hooded sweatshirt.

  In its place is a flattering blue, white, and green button-down flannel, and I have to admit, it not only does his body good, but it’s also doing my hormones good… but don’t get me started on that.

  Stepping out onto the porch, I lock the door behind me and smile up at him.

  He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “You look… cute.”

  I feel the blush creeping up my neck at his halted compliment and cast my eyes downward, pulling back a few strands of hair and tucking them behind my ear timidly. “Thanks.” Oh jeez. “Should we, um…”

  “Yeah, we should go. My mom’s kind of flipping out. In a good way.” He quickly reassures me, his low snicker filling me with warm fuzzies.

  He pulls his hands out of his pockets as we walk. His loose left hand brushes my hip, and then, after a few paces, grasps for my palm.

  I love the fact that he wants to hold hands, and it somehow seems intimate.

  I love it. Love it.

  I love the feel of his large hand clutching mine, holding it tight, the rough, hard-earned callouses a stark contrast to my smooth, self-manicured palms.

  And now that I’m being honest with myself, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t just love his hands.

  I secretly think I love him.

  All of him.

  Every quiet, serious, brooding inch of him.

  We stroll on without talking, our gait slow and leisurely. Caleb doesn’t say anything, doesn’t prep me or give me a pep talk. He just propels us forward to the Omega house, which sits stately in the center of the block down the street, its white trim and wraparound porch once belonging to a pillar of the Madison community.

  Decades old, yet just as impressive.

  Obviously, I’m assailed with anxiety as we walk toward this uncharted territory. I’ve never met a boy’s parents, let alone the parents of a boy I’ve only technically been on one date with. A date that we weren’t even on alone.

  He squeezes my hand when we get to
the edge of the yard, and when we do, a figure in the front window catches my eye. The curtains hastily slide back into place, and beside me, Caleb gives his head a little shake and swallows a curse.

  “Please just ignore whatever they tell you. And sorry in advance if they act weird.”

  A giggle escapes my lips as we ascend the front steps and cross the covered porch, and Caleb is pulling me by the hand through the front foyer. We’re not five feet in the door when Caleb’s parents walk out of the dining room, a huge, ear-to-ear grin spread across his mom’s face.

  Caleb drops my hand and stuffs his inside the pockets of his jeans.

  I could have picked his mother out of a line-up: tall with shoulder-length black hair neatly cascading over an aqua-blue running shirt. Mrs. Lockhart has the darkest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen, surrounded by lots of laugh lines.

  With an expressive smile resting on her mouth, she is the spitting image of her son. Or he’s the spitting image of her.

  Whatever, you know what I mean.

  She’s coming toward me, eyes darting down to where our hands had been joined on the way through the door, and, as if it were possible, her beaming smile widens. Then, as she’s biting her lower lip, her cheeks dimple. “You must be Abby!” She enthusiastically embraces me in a hug.

  Her cheeks will certainly be sore tonight from all the smiling.

  Caleb groans.

  “Hello, yes, I’m Abby.” I laugh anxiously. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Lockhart. Ma’am.”

  Ma’am? Ugh—what am I, from the South?

  “Oh goodness, call me Wendy. This is my husband, Rob.”

  Okay. I thought Caleb looked like his mom, but I was wrong; he is the spitting image of his dad. Rob Lockhart walks toward me. His presence in the room has my eyes widening into saucers. Just a hair taller than his son, he has shaggy black hair, dark brown eyes, and his mouth is set into a serious line.

  Nervously, I extend my hand and he takes it. “Sir, it’s good to meet you.”

  Mrs. Lockhart—Wendy—preens at Caleb. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”

  “Mom,” Caleb warns with a grimace.